


Both Sides

by somekindofseizure



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, msrafterdark, prompts, season 7, season of secret sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 01:46:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8081845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somekindofseizure/pseuds/somekindofseizure
Summary: Answering a request to write to the brilliant art of @msrafterdark.





	

[The picture](http://mostly-meggles.deviantart.com/art/We-Should-Be-Doing-Work-568600727?q=gallery%3Amostly-meggles&qo=24)

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It’s nearly midnight and he’s three sheets deep into his casefile, scratchy blanket comfort beneath his calves and mind sharp with the focus of demented melatonin cycles.  It’s approximately what he would’ve been doing any other Tuesday night, except he would’ve been doing it on the other side of the bed. He holds still as he wonders how to tell her, spooked by his own sudden shyness.  Their relationship is young enough that they do not have established sides, but old enough that she comes in effortless cotton, wears her glasses as she reads beside him, screws her lips into an unselfconscious pucker of rapt attention.  This is apparently all she’s ever needed to do to unnerve him.

She sips the glass of water she’s coastered on the nightstand, adjusts the bedside lamp, pushes her glasses up on her nose, all with her right hand.  As if trying to make a show of it.  Look how convenient this side is for me.  This side is surely the right side.  I would not survive any other side.  He notices his mouth creeping up like it’s on marionette strings and trains it downward.  

“Can you still see?” she asks in the newly lowered light.  Her devout sleep hygiene is silkily exotic in these parts; every skipped caffeinated beverage, avoidance of work in the bedroom and carefully timed dimming of lights tickles the drab robes of his Spartan insomnia. 

He looks her over, sheets crumpled around her hips, book digging into her belly and settles his eyes on the tiny pyramids of her nipples, shadowed in perfect sunset suspension, and feels slightly guilty.  She is of course, much more than her (perfect) nipples, but there are moments they are all he can handle.  The volume of wonderfulness she carries around is sometimes unbearable.

“Yes,” is all he says, and tries to give his attention back to the file at hand.

“Notice what I’m reading?”

“No.”  

He hears her smooth a palm over one page, clear her throat softly.  Oh, her throat, he thinks, flashing on a memory of her sucking him off with the rungs of her esophagus straining against the upward tilt of her chin.  But her mouth is currently busied with the task of reading aloud.

_“Dr. Hartwell makes some interesting observations towards the end of his paper, particularly his remarks concerning alcohol.  As we shall see, that substance was central to a Victorian explanation for inexplicable human combustion.”_

She’s braless, she’s in his bed, and she’s talking about spontaneous human combustion.  Any attempt he’s been planning to subdue his desire is doomed.  He inwardly mocks the man who would miss the lingerie phase of a relationship, someone who would not appreciate the exchange of raspy intelligence beneath cotton and pillow talk of the paranormal.  He quiets his mind, determined to hear the rest -

_“Note also, that although a source of ignition was close by, the flames seemed to have ‘skimmed’ over an area of damp leaves and other combustive materials – a straw hat and spade - were hardly touched.”_

He feels his eyes glaze over at the way she says ‘hard,’ the way she slurs the middle of the word ‘touched.’ She raises her eyebrows sarcastically over her glasses.  He’d teased her with just about this same cheekiness about a year ago in a moment that led them to this one.  He told her his heart leapt at her reference to this particular para-scientific (a word he’s recently started using which makes her insane) event.  And she told him to shut up in such a way that he couldn’t stop thinking about it until he found the book in a thrift shop, picked it up and left it on her chair one day.  Tossed the gesture off, as if he’d been doing the shop a favor in buying poor Peter Hough and Jenny Randles’ book as a gag gift for his unsuspecting laws-of-nature-abiding friend.  

“Fascinating stuff, Mulder,” she deadpans.  She can joke all she wants; she’s halfway through the book.

“You’re on my side of the bed, Scully.”

“You don’t have a side. You have a couch.  You only started sleeping in this bed because I’m in it in my underwear.”

“I sleep in it all the time, and I sleep on that side.”

“I like it here.”

She blinks through the glare in her glasses and he wonders how it’s taken him years to realize it. He does not want to strangle her when she argues with him.  He wants to hug her, cuddle her, fuck her.  Or is that new?  She puts the book down where she left off and he notices with smug assurance that she cares enough to hold the page.  She crawls into the crook of his arm and begins to play with the hairs on his chest.

“Don’t you like me here?” she coos and he laughs as he drags her on top of him, stretched cotton of his Jockeys brushing in agony against her thigh as she wiggles up to kiss him. She’s just introducing her tongue when he rolls her off onto her back.  On his left.

“I think I like you here better.”

“Hm, I don’t know…”

“Let me show you around.”

He stares down at her, the crisp scarlet of her hair picking up the stripes of his horrible blanket, a keepsake he’ll surely never get rid of now that he so associates it with the purple hue of her eyes in low light, the way her front tooth picks its way over her bottom lip when he trickles a hand down her torso.  He watches his own fingers with envy as they dally over her breasts, his circling thumbs skewing haywire the rigid vertical ribbing in her tank top. Her legs squirm beneath the blanket, making music of the four hundred thread count rule she’s enacted.

“Please,” she whispers and he lays his mouth back on hers, his hand against the soft skin beneath her grey cotton waistband.  His fingertips make their way to that sticky, wet stripe of Scully he’s only recently become acquainted with, another kind of sweet spot.  He slips a finger into it.

She moans, stretching the slim edge of her waist against his dick and begins to writhe against him, petting him with the lean, swayed line of her abdomen.  If she keeps flexing her oblique muscle against his cock, she won’t have to do much else.  He curls his torso away to avoid coming in his pants, growling playfully as he deprives himself of the contact between his erection and its source.

Newly focused, he fucks her with two fingers the way he’s come to know she likes it, making her so wet he can barely find his way around, refusing to kiss her a few moments so he can concentrate.  When she’s grunting rather than groaning, he slides his fingers out and uses their wet tips to rub her clit. Hard, harder than he would have thought to do, faster too, the exact pressure and speed he’s located and memorized in a careful calibrating process guided by the words “Oh fuck yes,” and “More, more.”

And she always says he’s not listening.

“I want you inside me,” she stammers with bated breath and it takes all the strength he has ever known to say, “No.  Come for me first.”

This is the one instance she seems to like when he tells her what to do.  She likes it so much, he tells her again.

“Come for me.”

And again.

“Come on, Scully. Give it to me.”

And she does.  She gives it to him with such open-mouthed, glistening generosity that he sinks his face into her neck in gratitude, quietly congratulating the way her discipline complements his intuition, even here. When she comes, it is better than home plate, better than being right, better than French fries, the best thing that has happened to him all day, the best thing that has happened to him since the last time she came.  She kisses him, eyelashes grazing his cheekbone, crisp and stapled shut, her right hamstring curling and unleashing around his thigh like a riptide, her left hand gripping the sheets as they move beneath her like sand, and of course, her pussy sizzling and ebbing in his palm.

She closes her eyes to catch her breath and he takes the opportunity to study the faint beads of sweat in her hairline.  The times she’s caught him mooning over her like this, she has tsked in offense, as if it were an affectation on his part, as if he were capable of such things.  He wipes his hand on her shirt and then brings it to her chest, trying to breathe the scent of her off his fingers without being creepy.  Sweet and rich, somewhere between wet desert and a ripe plum.  He wonders what point in their relationship they have to reach for him to simply put them in his mouth and suck, roll around shamelessly in her flavor.

With a long inhale, she gets up on her elbow and leans over him.  He rolls onto his back as she makes a slow journey over his body, swiping at the book and eyeglasses messily to push them off the bed.  

“Take them off,” she orders, body tented over his belly as he runs his hand up the back of her leg and over the clean, athletic line of her underwear. He obeys, though it requires very little of him – holding them in place as she continues her climb, lifts one knee over his torso and then the other.  He tries to stare at her nakedness, this part of her that has only newly been entrusted to him, but she slithers swiftly onto her stomach, takes the water glass from the nightstand once again.  He hesitates as she drinks, wanting to make sure, moving a hand into his boxer briefs and resting it over his cock in a show of support.  He has not fucked her from behind yet, and he’s so ready, he’s almost as wet as she is.  He gulps as she replaces the water glass, the cross around her neck dangling down to the bed in a golden dusting of her breasts.

“Come on,” she urges and he scrapes his Jockeys down his legs with his hands, then his feet.  She spreads her legs wider and arches her back so her ass curves up toward the ceiling, tosses her hair over her left shoulder and slides her hands forward under the pillows, as if to cue him that he’s guessed correctly.  He kneels between her legs and smoothes his hand up to her neck, dick resting against her bottom.  The angle of her profile as it slopes into the pout of her lips is as pure and sinful as the raucous, raging border of heaven and hell.  He’s given her a book when he should have given her a pony, a spaceship, the world.  “I want to show you how much better it is when I’m over here.”

She can have any side of the bed she wants, he thinks as he pulses his way inside her and pulls her shirt up over her shoulder to kiss it.  She can have all the sides.


End file.
